The Solace of Violent Hands
by narqueen
Summary: Having grown disenchanted with domestic life, Sango struggles to reclaim her identity as a demon slayer by making an uneasy alliance with a man she believed to be long-dead - only to discover that violence can bring people together just as much as it can tear them apart. Post-canon. [Naraku/Sango/Miroku]
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Rated for later chapters, angst, etc.

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 ** _The Solace of Violent Hands_**

by queen-of-sinking-ships

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...

 ** _"And this is the forbidden truth, the unspeakable taboo - that evil is not always repellent but frequently attractive; that it has the power to make of us not simply victims, as nature and accident do, but active accomplices."_**

 _\- Joyce Carol Oates_

...

 **i.**

 _She was a girl in love, and she was doomed._

Sango knew it, _knew it_ with every fiber of her being, but when it had happened, she didn't care. The monk had groped and laughed and wormed his way in the cracks of her stony warrior's heart (carved by a dead father, a possessed brother, and a burned village, respectively); his cursed touch painted smiles and scarlet over the gray death that had threatened to consume her from the moment she'd clawed out of her own grave. He'd made her whole, he'd made her a woman, made her _breathe_ –

(And this is why she was doomed.)

.

.

.

When they are married, Sango thinks, _this is now and now I am a wife._ Miroku's palm is holy and wholly perfect – especially when it cradles her bare thigh and presses into her hip to hold them together as their bodies break and mend on the floor of a new, newlywed's hut. His mouth is even better, because it kisses oh-so-gently and whispers silly nothings to ease the tension; Sango giggles like the love-struck girl she is, forgetting her fate, kissing him back.

The twins are born in the spring – two girls, much to Miroku's delight. Sango wonders if the irony is as apparent to him as it is to her, or if he's simply in denial.

A few years later, their son is born sometime before Kagome returns from her world; the infant cries during the entire duration of her and InuYasha's wedding (much to Sango's embarrassment), but no one seems to mind, for there are no dry eyes during the ceremony. Kagome says she _can't wait to have kids;_ Miroku lewdly remarks on how InuYasha _can't wait to get started._

Sango only smiles, trying to get all three of her children to be quiet, so that _she_ may speak; InuYasha seems to notice, because he grumbles something about letting the twins touch his ears, _but only if they shut up, got it?_ Immediately, the girls comply, fingers eagerly stretching upward, and Miroku continues making jokes, now that the room is quiet.

(And this is when Sango remembers she is doomed.)

.

.

.

 _This is now_ and _now_ Sango is a wife, yet she begins to recall who she'd been before _now_. She remembers whenever Kohaku visits to brings news of his accomplishments, the sickle that carved the scar on her back clinking against his hip; she remembers when her children scream for their father to come kill the spider in the corner of the room, and she cannot breathe until the resounding _crunch_ of eight breaking legs echoes through the wall; she remembers each time the villagers address her as _'the monk's wife, Sango'_ and not ' _the demon slayer, Sango'_ without a second thought.

The days drag on, the years pass by, but Sango slowly remembers that she was not always a wife, and that she was a girl in love – and before even that, she'd been a warrior, _once upon a time_ when the days were bright and warm and she was _just Sango;_ _just Sango_ with fire in her eyes and no scars on her back; _just Sango_ with a lifetime of promise in front of her; _just Sango_ and her weapons and family and demon blood beneath her nails, _why? Because I'm a taijiya that's why, Father always says taijyas don't have clean hands, Sango, don't let them fool you, those clean-handed men, don't trust them –_

One evening, Sango feels the familiar bend of her husband's wandering fingers against her shoulder, tugging at frayed fabric _it's so cold too cold please stop not tonight_ while she remains silent. In the back of her mind, her fathers' advice refuses to return to the bones of old memories, so she cannot help but think of just how smooth and flawless and _clean_ her husband's hands have been since their travels had come to a close, even after _happily ever after_ and _the end._

Miroku murmurs something that sounds like _I love you._

 _Once upon a time, she was a girl in love –_

Sango kisses him gently, sweetly, sinking into the deep, dark cavern of his mouth, imagining that the kazaana was back in his palm.

.

.

.

(And now she is doomed.)

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 **a/n:** I've been wanting to post this forever, but I've been suffering writer's block. Please bear with me - I know the direction I'm headed, but I'm afraid I made them a little OOC. Please tell me if I did so/give any suggestions if so. Angst tends to do that.

Personally, I've never bought the idea that Sango would have been like, 'oh, cool, I'm a mom now, no more fighting for me' and just chucked Hiraikotsu to the side. She grew up in a demon slayer village - something her children will not experience. I think there was a sort of selfish darkness within Sango that was never fully explored, but I'm hoping to change that.

Also, Joyce Carol Oates FTW.

 _Reviews, comments, criticisms, are always greatly appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** mild gore, angst

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…

 _ **Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name.**_

 _ **And then the nightmares will begin.**_

 _\- House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski_

…

 **ii.**

There is blood on her hands – _dark_ and _dirty_ and _dripping_ – yet she makes no move to clean it; only stares blankly, allowing it to run down her fingers and stain her skin scarlet, thinking, _here is something I can't erase._

"Mommy!"

The sound of her child – specifically, her 'eldest' daughter, Akiko – in obvious distress tears Sango away from her ruined palm and back into the present. As far as she knew, Akiko had been playing with her siblings in the house; Sango didn't even hear her come out and into the garden.

"Hush," Sango soothes immediately from her crouched position, maternal instinct kicking in, though she does not yet know the cause of her child's distress. "It's all right – "

But when she reaches out for an embrace, Akiko takes a step back, her wide, indigo gaze ( _Just like her father's,_ Sango thinks for what must be the thousandth time; the comparison is almost automatic, now, even five years after the twins' birth.) fixated on Sango's bloody palm; following her daughter's gaze, understanding washes over Sango in a cold, sharp wave.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm fine."

Akiko presses her tiny pink lips together, pushing one foot back and forth into the dirt. "I know, Mommy."

Sango blinks, somewhat taken aback. It's clear her daughter does not want a hug, so she withdraws her arms awkwardly, closing her fingers over the offending palm as she does so.

After a moment or two, Akiko finally points to the carcass of a chicken Sango had found on their doorstep only that morning; the wretched bird's feet had been torn from it's body, and a large chunk of it's stomach had clearly been ripped out by a set of fangs, leaving whatever was left of the innards to dangle from the wound. Around a few of the teeth marks, a sickly green substance pulses faintly against tattered feathers, glinting wickedly in the midday sun.

"It was a demon," Sango explains, though she knows it's redundant. What other creature could kill like this?

"The same one as…as last time?"

Pursing her lips, Sango nods, looking once more to the corpse of the poor animal. "That's the third chicken this month."

Looking considerably less frightened than before, Akiko inches closer, trying to get a better view of the mangled body.

"Don't touch it," Sango orders sternly; whatever _youkai_ that had been attacking the village crops and livestock was poisonous – Sango could already feel the burn of the chicken's infected blood against her palm, so she drags her hand in the muddy soil beside her, which alleviates the sting.

"I know," her child retorts smartly, rolling her eyes. Sango raises a brow, considering correcting the gesture, but decides to let it slide, electing to watch Akiko tiptoes around the broken stems of a couple white daises – no doubt crushed underfoot the demon's heel during its nightly escapade. Briefly, Sango considers re-planting the buds – _what a waste of such beautiful things!_ – But dismisses the idea almost instantly, because she knows she can't save them, and grows annoyed with her own hopefulness.

"Awh!"

Akiko whimpers as she makes a hasty retreat, evidently having seen enough gore; this time, she accepts Sango's offer of comfort, falling into her mother's arms and burying her tiny face into Sango's breast. "Poor chick-y!"

With an aching heart, Sango squeezes Akiko into a nearly suffocating embrace, abruptly and inexplicably overwhelmed by the whole ordeal. She'd come out to bury the bird before her children could catch sight of it; yet, she did not stop her daughter from getting a closer look, for Sango had seen the remains of demons and humans alike since she could wield the smallest of weapons ( _six summers, dagger_ ), because she was a taijiya and _taijiyas start young, training is something you will do for life, forever, can't have those nasty demons getting the better of you at any age, right, Sango? Can't be weak, ever –_

Except a demon _had_ gotten the better of her comrades – a demon who'd tricked them through her brother, tricked her through Kohaku, tricked them all through a prince's face and illness-stricken body; for everything her father preached about demons and the distrust of clean human hands, Sango suspects that her father never guessed that the two would have ever coincided, and that it would prove to be the death of the entire clan.

 _No,_ Sango concludes, running her hands over the back of Akiko's grimy pink yukata, _this is no demon-slayer village, and my children will never be like me._

The realization is a strange one, and Sango feels strangely detached when she glances down and notices that some of the chicken's blood had remained stuck to her skin, and that she had unknowingly wiped the last of it off on her child's clothes in long, filthy streaks of crimson.

.

.

.

"Another one?"

Miroku's features are crinkled in confusion; Sango has begun to take note of the places where his skin would wrinkle permanently one day (laugh lines, mostly), but thinks him all the more handsome for it. The two of them were no longer teenagers; time, work, and raising children had begun to take its toll. InuYasha and Kagome were waiting to start a family ("Girls in my time don't have kids at seventeen or eighteen," Kagome had explained, on more than one occasion, "and I don't want to rush it…"), so physically, they looked just as young as they'd been during the quest for the Shikon Jewel.

However, though they wouldn't admit it, Sango theorizes that Kagome and InuYasha are still recovering from the trauma of their separation – the first few memories of those three years were some of the most agonizing ones Sango possessed. No matter often she tries, there are certain moments which refuse to forgotten: the fourth night of Kagome's absence, when Shippo had finally broke down into a mess of tears and turmoil, and the rest of them following shortly thereafter; the winter of the first year, when Sesshomaru had visited to bring Rin another gift, and the moment he'd left, Rin padding barefoot to offer the present (a blanket with the emblem of the House of the West) to InuYasha, who'd refused to move away from the well, and Sango had heard the girl say something like _don't cry, Lord InuYasha, if your tears freeze on your cheeks they'll get stuck and it will hurt to get them off;_ one new moon in autumn, right before the twins were born, when Sango had come out to give her best friend some food and company, and InuYasha, out of nowhere, started screaming – horrifying, tearless screams that sent chills down Sango's spine, and for a good time she'd thought InuYasha had poisoned himself, or finally been driven mad, or –

"Yes," Sango affirms, and Miroku nods grimly. "What are we to do? The demon is growing bolder, whatever it is."

He sighs, running his (now un-cursed) hand through their younger daughter's – Akira – hair when she ambles over, proceeding to cling to her father's leg. "I'll discuss it with InuYasha."

"Daddy can kill it!" Akira suggests brightly, tugging at the bottom of Miroku's robes. "Daddy kills demons!"

Grinning, Miroku leans down to scoop her up, inciting a stream of jealous whines from Akiko. Sango watches the scene unfold amusedly, but does not miss how Akira's remark did not include any mention of her mother, _Sango,_ nor did Miroku correct it; did not say, _'Well, Mommy used to kill demons, too, have you forgotten?'_

Their youngest – the boy, Hitoshi – begins to gurgle agitatedly, chubby arms flailing in the air, "Ma-ma! Ma-ma!" from a mat the children liked to play on, some ways away from the table.

"Oh, he's hungry!" Miroku observes in a playful, pleasant tone, tickling Akiko's stomach. Immediately, all eyes in the room turn to Sango, a wordless inquiry lingering in the air.

The telltale pulse of a migraine suddenly rattles the already-strained frays of her nerves; Sango clenches her jaw, fingers twisting along the inside of her sleeve. In another lifetime, she might have struck Miroku for his obviousness, shouldered Hiraikotsu, and walked away to give herself some space to calm down and remember how much she loved him.

Here, in this cozy, comforting hut, there is no such space.

So Sango says nothing, removing herself as best she can, dispensing portions of rice into chipped china, back turned to the harmony of innocence and ignorance – which, when played together, sound strangely similar.

.

.

.

 _Snap!_

Sango jerks awake, tangling her fingers in blankets, looking frantically around the hut to make sure there was nothing that could harm her children. Much to her relief, there seems to be no such danger – however, this does not remove the tension in her blood and bones, because she was a demon-slayer, a warrior, and Sango trusts nothing.

"Miroku!" she whispers, tapping her husband's side of the futon, finding his cheek while keeping her eyes fixed towards the kitchen – towards the front of their house, near the garden where she'd buried the chicken.

"Mmm," Miroku sighs contently, weakly grasping her palm and rubbing them against his cheek, clearly taking her gesture the wrong way. "Sango, my love…"

"Miroku!" she hisses, a little more urgently, jerking her fingers away (to Miroku's halfhearted whines of protest), "I think the demon's back!"

This seems to get his attention, and he cracks open a single eye to stare blearily up at her. "I don't sense anything."

"I just heard something!"

He yawns, rolling over, burying his face into her thigh. "Mmhmm…I'll check in the morning…don't worry…hmm…"

Cheeks faintly pink (from embarrassment or annoyance, she isn't sure) Sango remains rigidly upright until she is positive Miroku has fallen asleep; the man never snores, nor does he give any other indication of deep slumber, so she spends what feels like an eternity sitting on the futon, fists kneading the threadbare blankets that needed to be replaced, blood roaring in her ears like one of the beasts she used to fight.

 _Wonder what kind of youkai it is?_ A tiny, disembodied voice bursts through Sango's personal silence, and she starts. _A big one? A small one? A animal-like one? One in a human guise?_

"A doomed one," she responds aloud, voice hushed. "A dead one."

The idea pleases Sango more than she'd like to admit.

 _For my babies,_ she amends, _promises,_ as she slinks out from under the covers, tiptoeing to the front entrance, pausing only to readjust the rumpled blankets over each of her children, ensuring all fingers and toes were safe from the chill of night.

Sango's fingers falter only for a fleeting, flitting moment, before sliding the door open, exposing themselves to the tender, welcome embrace of midnight.

.

.

.

This time, the demon left tracks – long, dragging marks in the dirt, uneven in direction but consistently shallow – which troubles Sango. While the demon had been reckless in it's hunting (suggesting low intelligence), it had left scant physical evidence, save for the green venom in the wounds of its victims. Coupled with the sharp noise that had woke her, Sango suspects the creature was injured; the tracks indicate a broken leg or limb, and the creature was forced to lug its useless appendage back into the monster-infested forest that lined the edges of the village.

 _It was running from something,_ Sango realizes suddenly, sucking in a breath. _Something deliberately hurt it._

Unconsciously, she reaches for her back – _for Hiraikotsu_ – and is briefly surprised when she touches nothing but cool, autumn air.

 _Silly me._

The thought is laced with bitterness, and Sango shakes her head, dismissing the notion before it can go any further.

 _You need to stop,_ she chastises herself sternly, _you must end this vile path you are taking._

As of late, a sour, strange resentment had built itself in Sango, feeding a part of herself she'd never known existed. And although she is uncertain exactly _where_ these feelings were coming from, or _why_ they were happening in the first place, she refuses to explore the idea; refuses to believe that she is anything less than elated with her life.

 _This is now, and now I am a wife._

With that reminder in place, Sango straightens her shoulders, exhales away her doubt, and marches into the deep, dark tangle of trees, allowing it to swallow her whole.

.

.

.

Pale moonlight bathes the spaces between shadows, highlighting the shapes of leaves and foliage in its wake. Because of this, the trail of demon markings is harder to follow here, not to mention Sango's out of practice. Scowling as she swats away another branch blocking the way, the faintest hint of something like _regret_ teases the corners of her mind.

 _What are you trying to prove?_ She asks herself, panting, wincing when she steps on a particularly sharp stone embedded in the forest floor, feeling its pointed edge through her sandal. _What good will this do?_

Insecurity bubbles through her veins, hot and unwelcome, tainting everything in its path. Slowing slightly, Sango pinches the side of her thigh, grimacing at the fleshy excess that had collected there – the aftermath of childbirth, alongside years of domesticity and few opportunities to resume her regular exercise routine, _I don't have time for training, InuYasha, I have to bathe the girls and Kohaku's coming to visit any day now, maybe later, okay?_

InuYasha had stopped offering after a while; in fact, Sango noticed he took to assuming responsibility for more mundane duties, such as gathering food or looking after the village children, especially after he began accompanying Miroku on his demon-exorcising missions. Looking back on the matter, Sango wonders if InuYasha had participated in whatever he could to garner his best friend's attention – even if the activity was boring, or took him physically apart from the well – because he didn't want to lose the only two people he had left in the world to something as uncontrollable as _life._

A lump forms in her throat, and for the thousandth time, Sango berates herself for being so selfish, time and time again.

 _I can't keep being like this! I won't hurt them because of my_ own _problems!_

Resolution rekindled within her heart, Sango stops walking, fully intent on turning around, when a pathetic mewl rattles behind a thin cluster of trees off to her left, splicing the serene, mellow atmosphere of the evening.

Clapping a hand over her mouth, Sango bites back a startled shriek, ogling the skeletal grove of trees dumbly. Another cry of wordless agony resonates behind the ashen wood, and before she knows it, Sango finds herself moving towards the source of the sound, crushing the brittle, brown bones of dead leaves beneath her foot, breath clogged in her throat, _crick-crack crack-snap crack-snap snap-snap-snap-snap-sn –_

Sango's blood goes cold, and she stops mid-step.

There, trapped in a net of milky thread, is a large spider youkai, squirming pitifully on the ground, pausing periodically to click its pinchers frantically, trying to lift three of its eight legs off the ground, and yowling when the limbs only dangly lifelessly in the air.

"You're…you're the demon…" Sango stutters faintly, crouching slightly, aware that this lower-level youkai cannot reply. Regardless the spider stills, blinking its glassy eyes up at her, like it understands what she's saying. "How…you're a spider…why are you – "

"Trapped?"

The dry, deep drawl jars Sango with the force of a thousand painful memories – _mother father brother dead, earth under nail beds as she claws herself free of the grave someone dug for her, a prince with a kind gaze and beautiful hands, so pale and soft and cold and clean_ – and she whirls around, choking on everything and nothing and all, thinking _no no no, please, it can't be!_

He glides out of the inky gloom, donned in his usual garb of purple and black, graceful and alluring as ever, smirking as he gazes down at her with burgundy, bloody, _burning_ eyes.

"Hello, Sango," Naraku says, tone pleasant. "Miss me?"

Remembering who she was, Sango jerks back, feet planted firmly on the ground in a defensive position, rage boiling every bit of her form. "You – you're supposed to be _dead!_ "

Panicked, she thinks of Miroku, recalling the circumstances of the Wind Tunnel and the conditions under which it closed. _What if Naraku reopened it?_

"I was supposed to be a lot of things," Naraku retorts mildly, glancing the wounded spider between them, which continued to writhe on the ground. "And I _did_ die – if only momentarily – within the Jewel itself. But I came back."

"How is that?!" Sango spits, tensing all her muscles. Naraku's mane of ebony waves blends with every curve of the nighttime shadows; if he were to flee, Sango isn't positive she'd be able to chase him down.

Grinning wickedly, he fixes his gaze back on Sango, boring holes in her skin. "Why, your friend _Kagome_ brought me back."

Sango opens her mouth to protest, _No, you bastard, she would never do that!_ but Naraku waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Granted, the girl has no idea she did such a thing. However, she and I are linked by the existence of the Shikon Jewel. Although it's gone now, our presence in this world were intended to coincide – hence, she was unable to return from her era for a while. Isn't that right?"

A twig snaps in the distance. Naraku chuckles, once.

"Kagome was granted a final chance to exist in this world – by consequence, so was I. It's my…consolation prize, if you will."

Sango wants to scream and sob and strangle him all at once. Grinding her teeth, she stiffens when Naraku takes a slow, smug step in her direction.

"If you hurt Miroku, or Kohaku – "

"Don't worry," he interrupts, angled features slipping into a vaguely bored expression. "I have no interest in the monk, or your brother, or your offspring, _taijiya_. Nor do I have any interest in InuYasha, or any of your other…companions _._ "

Sango inhales audibly – on one hand, relieved that Naraku professed little interest in her family. On the other, she's shocked that he'd addressed her as a demon slayer. She doesn't even want to _know_ how he's become aware of her children; then again, he'd apparently been watching the village for at least two years. Surely, Naraku had spied on Sango's home more than once.

Picturing his grimy, greedy eyes spying on Akiko and Akira and baby Hitoshi, fury ignites her heart once more.

"What do you want from me?" Sango whispers dangerously, body poised to strike, fully intent on scraping his eyeballs from their sockets if that's what it took to keep him from spying on her children ever again.

Another smirk pulling at his full, pale mouth, Naraku raises his foot, and deliberately crushes one of the spider's uninjured legs, snapping it in two, ignoring the spider's animalistic shrieks of anguish.

"I am bored," he answers plainly, raising his voice to be heard over the spider's wails. "And I know you are, too, Sango."

"Stop that!" Sango cannot tear her eyes from the struggling youkai, horrified that Naraku would prolong its misery.

"You dislike being at home," Naraku continues, neglecting to remove his foot, "You miss the thrill of the fight. You miss your old life. You miss killing demons. You miss being a slayer, Sango."

Something inside her detaches, flooding her blood with a peculiar numbness from head to toe.

Naraku offers a crooked smile, showing off pearly, pointed fangs. "I know, taijiya, because you and I are the same."

This brings Sango back into reality.

"We are not the same," she bites out, a blend of sympathy and defiance pushing her to advance towards the broken, beaten thing. "You're a monster!"

Naraku doesn't answer; merely, he lifts his foot, so that the spider scuttles aimlessly in its bindings, onyx pinchers frothing with green venom, hissing viciously when Sango got too close.

"Don't bother," he advises, guessing Sango's intentions. "Those are my webs. They cannot be cut or broken by anyone besides myself."

Not paying him any heed, Sango falls to her knees, attempting to sever a particularly large knot of pasty webbing from the gnarled tree root it was anchored to. Splinters slice into her palms, leaving stinging gashes in their wake, yet Sango presses on, refusing to believe Naraku, _that bastard, that beast, why is he back, this has to be a joke, some sick, horrible hallucination, what will I do, how can I stop him –_

When Sango finally tires, she slumps forward, knees digging into the murky earth, hands covered in grime and blood; the gloom makes it impossible to discern which is which. Tears spill down her cheeks in small, warm droplets, sliding down her flushed cheeks, and Sango swallows the bitter taste of defeat, breath hitching in her throat. She hasn't felt so helpless in…well, since Naraku was alive. Sourly, she reflects over how easily he is able to render her to a sniveling, weak mess – even now, years later.

 _I'm a failure,_ Sango concludes miserably.

Somewhere above her, Naraku makes a noise of disapproval.

"While highly entertaining, your self-pity is useless to me."

Without considering how she might look, Sango raises her face to meet his gaze, glowering balefully through the blur of her tears. Naraku was already a good foot taller than her; from the ground, he is ridiculously gargantuan, which makes Sango despise him all the more.

To her surprise, Naraku lowers himself to her level – though he only bends forward, and doesn't crouch, as if the muddy earth was too filthy for anything above his feet. The change in angle causes his raven waves to spill past his shoulders and curtain his fair, sharp features, emphasizing the contrast between the two. Dimly, Sango remembers how handsome Naraku was, up-close, when he wasn't speaking. After all, hadn't he been a prince, _once upon a time?_

Then she peers into the ruby-red gaze the prince did _not_ possess – bears witness to the horror of his soul for what seems like an eternity – and any positive inklings Sango may have had towards Naraku evaporate in the heat of her hatred.

"What do you want from me?" she whispers, vaguely aware of increasing ache radiating from the lacerations on her hands.

Naraku's mouth twists into something like a smile, except it is ugly and smug, full of a dark satisfaction that makes Sango's skin crawl. With a long, skeletal finger, he points to the trapped demon.

"I want you to kill it."

The world is going fuzzy; Sango is sure she has stopped breathing altogether.

"If you kill it," Naraku elaborates, straightening. "It means you want to hunt with me."

"Hunt?" Sango echoes.

"Hunt. Train. Kill." He smirks. "My days are rather mundane, I'm afraid, and my _present situation_ provides only incompetent opponents or opportunities to improve myself. And I've always admired your persistence, my dear; from the moment you dug yourself out of death. You were the only one in your group with no spiritual or otherworldly abilities. Don't think I've forgotten, now."

Sango does not miss the lingering bitterness behind Naraku's statement. "Present situation?"

"Kagewaki Hitomi's face is still that of a noble." is the only explanation he gives, turning heel.

"And if I refuse your offer?" Sango snarls, balling her hands into fists in her lap, agitating the lesions. "How am I to indicate _that?_ "

Face half-concealed with the spotted shadow of the trees above, Naraku tosses a knowing look over his shoulder.

"Then you let it die." _Smirk._ "Terribly slow death, wouldn't you agree, taijiya?"

With those parting words, Naraku begins to walk away, leaving Sango in the ruins of autumn foliage.

 _My present situation…_

Abruptly, Sango stands. "Wait!"

Naraku halts in his tracks, but does not turn to face her. Sango narrows her eyes at his back, choosing her next words with care.

"The last time we fought…with the Jewel…you wanted – you wished for Kikyou."

The sentence is poorly strung together, constructed from bits and pieces of information Kagome had dropped over the years. But like any opponent, Sango wants to test Naraku's soft spots – wants to see the reaction she will get by mentioning the woman she knew Naraku had desired above all else.

When Naraku says nothing, Sango pushes on, determination and curiosity turning her tongue bold. "Kikyou is dead. You killed her. And the Shikon Jewel is gone. So…what is left, Naraku? What do _want?_ "

The implication that his life is purposeless without Kikyou lingers in the space between them – unspoken, but there nonetheless.

"Don't mention that woman again," Naraku orders evenly, and resumes exiting the grove.

But Sango notes the tight clench of his fists – those lovely, white, clean fingers going rigid and curling into his palms, claw-like nails embedding themselves in his false flesh – as he disappears into the night, footsteps trampling the carcasses of weeds and grass, leaving Sango and a crying, half-dead spider as the wind whistles through the trees, icy and unforgiving against Sango's bloodied, bruised hands.

* * *

 **a/n:** Literally forever since I've updated, but, you know – college and work and life and all that. Also, within the last two days, I've been sick, so…

I should be doing homework right now, but I've missed the last few days of Inuvember, and I felt like I needed to make up for that somehow.

Side note: there's a lot of symbolism in this chapter, because I am a pretentious author/English major/literature lover, so of course I have to pretend I'm qualified to cram it in my fanfictions. Believe me, I want to punch myself five times over in the face for it all. Like. Please stop me.

I hope you guys liked this chapter; I was feeling iffy about it.

 _Reviews, comments, critiques are greatly appreciated._


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